Other Side of the Hill
by Tolakasa
Summary: AU. He has two brothers he's never met. They're named Winchester. M for language. Consistent through Folsom Prison Blues.
1. Jerry

Pretty consistent through "Folsom Prison Blues"; no promises and most likely blatant AU past that.**

* * *

**

Jerry

He had no right to lie to me all these years. He owed me the truth.

Thing is, I thought he had, until last year, when he died. I mean, why wouldn't I? I don't remember my mother. Never did. When I was little, he told me she died, and it made sense. Then, when I was sixteen and he thought I was old enough, he told me the truth: that when my sister and I were two, our mother ran off with a mechanic. A _mechanic_. From _Kansas_. Honestly, who _wants_ to go to _Kansas_ to live, except maybe Clark Kent? And she lived there quite happily with her redneck mechanic husband and their daughters, probably raising them to be redneck sluts like she was.

No, I didn't mean anything by it, of course, your house is very lovely. Great yard.

I never wanted to look her up. I was sixteen, and I was _pissed_. It was easy to lay all that adolescent rage and hate at her feet. Jenny, she _still_ does. Far as she's concerned, our mother died when we were babies.

Then Dad died last year. And because Jenny's in Iraq, I got stuck dealing with all the paperwork.

Like the divorce papers. And the letters.

Because that's what it was. A calm, well-reasoned, probably _smart_ divorce, with Dad being granted sole custody. A full year before our mother finally left Oregon. _Three_ years before the letter notifying him that she was getting remarried. A letter _begging_ him to let her into our lives.

I would have been five when she got remarried. Old enough to be ringbearer, if she had a fancy ceremony. Old enough to be there, if she didn't.

Old enough to bond to a stepfather. I mean, he sent us toys with that letter she wrote, about getting married. A truck for Jenny and a doll for me. I don't know if she told the poor man that the doll would end up going to his step_son_, but I don't guess it matters since Dad never even opened them. They were still in the packaging, put up with the letters. But it meant the guy she was marrying wasn't just some asshole redneck, he was willing to welcome us into their new life, and that means—that means Dad was all wrong, doesn't it? We could have bonded with that guy instead of hating him all those years.

Hell, I bonded real tight with my stepmother; Dad got married about the same time, and I worshipped that woman. Still call her Mom, though she's been dead six years. She's the one I'll point out to my kids when they ask about their grandmother, no question.

But _I_ have questions. Lots of them.

Why do I think he didn't tell us? I don't know. Well, actually, I know part of it. All my friends had brothers—older brothers to look up to and emulate, little brothers to protect and torment. Dad had to know how much _I_ wanted a brother, especially being the only boy in a houseful of sisters. That's why he said my mother's second marriage produced daughters, when in fact, Jenny and I have two half-brothers. If he'd told me I had brothers, he'd've never stopped me from seeking them out.

I guess I never really got over that. Which is why this little Oregon boy is here in Kansas in a town I never heard of before.

I had her name and a guess, based on the last letter Dad kept. I got lucky, I guess, I found the marriage certificate pretty quick. Winchester. That was her new married name. Never knew that. Dad always referred to her by her maiden name, when he had to refer to her at all. Usually it was just "my first wife." I thought that was her name—you know, all one word, _Myfirstwife_—until I was seven or so and realized she was named Mary.

And just when I was getting my feet back under me, I got hit. Hard. 'Cause she died in '83. In a house fire. Dad never told us. Maybe he didn't know. Everything just _disappeared_, so maybe her husband was too lost to think about telling us.

It's the freakiest damn thing. It's like they evaporated or something. Except for Dean. He's apparently wanted by the FBI for faking his death in a serial killer case in St. Louis.

I don't know if I believe that. I mean, I believe it's _him_, of course, they've got too much info for it not to be, but I don't know if he's guilty. I don't want to think a guy that's got the same biological mother as me could be a killer. It's just too scary, really. Although, if he's anything like Jenny—well, okay, so I believe it's _possible_. Oh, trust me. You haven't seen her with a gun.

And there was a Sam Winchester in California, going to Stanford, which is _weird_ because _I_ went to Stanford, but there was another fire and his girlfriend died and he went poof. Sure, it might not be—oh. It was? Poor guy. Is he a pyromaniac?

No, you're right. No way he started that other one, he was what, five months old?

But anyhow, I went to the last known address I could find here in Lawrence, the house where my mother died, and the lady living there now says that they came through a year or so ago and you helped them—do something. She wasn't very clear about what. It wasn't illegal, was it? Oh, no, I didn't mean anything by that—I just wondered! I'm sorry!

I know, you said that, you haven't seen them, you don't know where they are. But I was just wondering—if I leave you my name and phone number, and they do happen to come through, maybe you could tell them to call me? I won't turn Dean in or anything, and I don't want anything. I just want to meet them. I don't know if their dad ever told them about us, but I know what's it like to have this thrown at you all of a sudden, and I don't want that for anybody else.

Thanks, Miss Mosely. I really appreciate it.


	2. Jenny

**Jenny**

What the fuck do you mean, the bitch didn't leave Dad?

Of _course_ there was a divorce, idiot, he couldn't very well have married Mom otherwise— _What?_ Mike, I'm borrowing your boyfriend for a minute. Go get the car. Don't look at me that way, I'm tired, thirsty, dirty, and PMSing. And still armed.

Yeah, I thought that might get you running.

Don't you "Jennifer" me, you goddamned—oh, don't look at me that way, I just got off the fucking plane and you spring this on me, what do you _expect_ me to do? Here I am looking forward to a nice long soak in a whirlpool tub, and you slam me with _this?_ Of _course_ I'm going to cuss, you pansy! I get one lousy e-mail from you saying "Dad was a liar" and that was it? You couldn't have given me a _little_ more detail?

She didn't leave Oregon for a year after? Are you serious? She really _didn't_ just up and leave us?

What? What letter? What toys? Huh? Jerry, goddammit, _breathe!_ You're gonna hyperventilate and I'm too tired to catch you when you hit the concrete!

Now. What letter—oh, you brought it. Huh. Well, this isn't how I imagined her writing, I gotta admit. My God, she was really begging here.

Still. Doesn't mean anything. Court wouldn't have given Dad full custody if she'd been any kind of mother—

Do _what?_

He sent me a truck? And he sent you a doll?

Oh, frackin' fuckin' gorram _fuck_. You're serious. You're—

Yes, dimwit, I can _see_ that it's a truck. I just can't believe you _brought_ it. Wow. This is the little truck I wanted when I was five. The one Grandma took away from me when Grandpa bought it. And you say this is from—from our _stepfather?_ The _mechanic?_

No, it's just—look, it's a lot to deal with, okay? And you haven't exactly given me a lot of time to—

Do _what?_ Brothers? She didn't have any boys, she had girls—

Frackin' hell, are you _serious_? Mike let you go to Kansas? By yourself? You idiot, you get lost trying to find the pizza place! Not to mention you get carsick, airsick, _and_ seasick! Yes, I know there are no oceans between here and Kansas. I'm the one that _passed_ geography, you were too busy checking out the teacher's ass. What? You gonna deny it?

Mike! You goddamned _idiot!_ You let my baby brother go to Kansas by himself? You couldn't take a weekend to make sure your favorite boytoy was— Don't give me that! And don't you start, either, Jerry, five minutes is five minutes and I'm _always_ gonna be older than you! There's a reason Mom told me to take care of you and not the other way around! _She_ had the good sense to know which of us was tougher.

Oh, no you don't. I can't lecture you if you're in the front seat. You sit back here. Mike doesn't need you navigating, not if we want to get home. God, I can't wait till I can find my own place again.

What was that, Mike? The Jacuzzi? God, why couldn't I get _you_ for a brother, instead of the Jerry-fairy here?

Don't hit me, moron. Now, tell me about these guys and this woman who knows them. What kind of woman is named friggin' _Missouri?_ She got sisters named Alabama and Mississippi?

_She's a what?_ Michael! Pull over so I can beat some sense into my brother!

Ingrate. This is what I get for introducing you two.

DNA? You sent off DNA tests? For all four of us? Where'd you get— Oh, yeah, forgot I left that toothbrush at your place. Still, you could have _told_ me you were getting tested. So they're really our brothers?

Damn.

Talked to him? He called? Which one? And which one is he again?

Sam. Well, I see she didn't get any more imaginative with the names for them. Hey, I find that very reassuring. Just because _you_ don't like your name is no reason to get pissed over mine—

Wait a minute. What did you say their last name was?

Winchester? Their name's Winchester?

_Sam and Dean_ Winchester?

Jesus.

You said they were willing to meet? Set it up. Set it up _now_, Jerry.


	3. The Call

_Sadly, I could not manage the rest of the story in the same fun first-person POV as the first two chapters. Try to have fun anyway!_

* * *

**The Call**

Sam's phone went off at five in the morning. _Five_ in the goddamned _morning_. Dean, startled out of the doze that was the closest he could come to sleep at the moment, swore vividly—but swearing was _all_ he could do, as beat-up as he was, or he might have hurled Sam's phone into a wall.

Sam, who was actually asleep for once, finally answered it—after about sixteen rings; the person on the other end had obviously never heard of voicemail—and if Dean's pain-blurred eyes weren't deceiving him, his brother went from half-asleep to full-on nervous in under a second. The Impala didn't accelerate that well. "Hold on a second," he told the person on the other end of the line, and to Dean's surprise, carried the phone into the bathroom.

"What the fuck?" Dean muttered. He started to lever himself up, but the gashes across his chest decided to remind him forcefully of their existence, and he fell back onto the bed with a groan. Goddamned monsters. Not enough that it had smashed him into a rock wall _five_ times, but _then_ it had decided he needed shredding. Sam had stitched the cuts up, but they hadn't robbed any pharmacies lately, which meant all they had was Tylenol and aspirin, and Dean had long ago reached the point where for those to have any effect, he'd have to swallow enough to make his liver self-destruct.

It was going to be awhile before they went hunting again, that was for damn sure. And he'd be insane by then, because he couldn't even raise his head enough to watch TV. Even one pillow made his neck scream in agony.

Who the hell was Sam talking to? A call about a job, he'd stay in here. Maybe it was a girl—

Yeah, right. This was _Sammy_. Besides, what kind of crazy girl called at five in the morning? Well, it would be around eight on the East Coast, but Sarah knew to allow for the possibility that they might be in the Pacific time zone, and Dean couldn't think of any other women who'd be calling Sam for anything not related to a hunt.

One of his college friends, maybe? They mostly e-mailed though, especially after the shapeshifter mess. Hunters called Dean—ever since that mess with The Thing That Had Once Been Meg, Sam had been steadfastly ignored by their contacts in the hunting world.

God, this was annoying. If he was stuck flat on his back much longer—

Okay, it had only been three hours since they got back, but he didn't care, this was miserable, and who the _hell_ could Sammy be talking to? This was going to drive him crazy. He wasn't made for lying still and staring at a water-stained ceiling. How long had they been ignoring that leak anyway? He was surprised the damn plaster hadn't come crashing down yet—

"Goddammit, Sammy, what the fuck is going on?" Dean demanded of the empty room.

It was at least fifteen minutes before Sam finally came out of the bathroom. It felt like an hour. Sam turned on the overhead light (making Dean cuss), set the phone on the table, next to the laptop, retrieved a folder from the stack of research next to it, and sat down on his bed, where Dean could see him easily. "I need to tell you something."

Son of a _bitch_. It was the Serious Sammy Voice, accompanied by the Serious Sammy Face. This couldn't be good. Somebody was either dead or possessed. Or both. "No shit," Dean said acidly. "Who was—"

"Remember when we were at Missouri's a few months ago?"

Dean snorted. (That hurt too. Dammit.) "Not like I could forget it," he grumbled. Missouri had been having a bad day, he'd been having a bad week, and the results had not been pretty. He could take it as long as she was only razzing him, but when she insulted the Impala—well, things had gotten _really_ ugly. "We're not going back until she apologizes," he added, to forestall the request he was sure was coming.

"That wasn't her."

"Then what the hell is going on?"

"She— Well." Sam shoved his hair out of his face. "While you were out in the car sulking—"

"Sleeping," Dean corrected irritably. "I was _sleeping_. Not sulking."

"Yeah. Right. She told me about this visitor she'd had. Guy from Oregon who claimed—" Sam hesitated. "God, Dean, I don't know how to say this. His name's Jerry Remington. He has a twin sister named Jenny. And they—they're our brother and sister."

Dean stared at him. "Very funny, Sam. This is a shitty time for you to decide to start the prank war—"

Sam gave him a sleep-deprived glare. "This isn't a prank, Dean. I'm serious."

Dean sighed. "So what's their claim? Dad and a barmaid somewhere? Things happen—"

"Mom. Her first marriage."

Sam's words hit him like that rock wall had earlier today. Possibly harder, because for a long, long minute, Dean couldn't breathe. "Mom—" Deep breath. Deep breath. Hell, _any_ breath. Oh, _God_, his lungs hurt. This wasn't what his abused ribcage needed right now. "Mom wasn't," he finally managed, fighting for every word. "Married. Before. Dad."

"I didn't believe it either." Sam opened the folder. "Remember that job in Salem last month?" Dean nodded. "Part of the reason I wanted to take it— Not all the research I did was on the job. I dug this out of the state records." The paper Sam held up for him to see was plainly a copy of an Oregon marriage certificate, dated 1972. "She was seventeen, and the twins were born six months later, so I think it was a shotgun wedding. It didn't last long, they were divorced in '74, and their dad got sole custody. Jerry says their dad always told them that she ran out on them."

"She wouldn't—"

"She didn't. She kept trying. But— I guess he was one of those bitter exes. Jerry— I think their family has money, or ran the town, or something. Maybe they bought the judge. I don't know. Neither do they."

Dean's head was starting to spin, and he didn't think it was entirely due to pain. "But—Dad—he never—"

"I guess Dad just thought it was one of those things he'd get around to telling us. And then—well, he had other stuff on his mind and it wasn't like the ex wanted anything to do with us." Dean gave him a _look_. "Anyhow, on the phone just now— That was Jerry."

"At _five in the morning?_"

"When I called him, we were in Virginia. I couldn't tell him _everything_, so I guess he just assumed we lived there. He was wanting to get us before we, ah, went to work." Dean chuckled. (It hurt.) "His sister just got back from Iraq."

"Iraq?"

"She's in the reserves. Army. They—" Sam took a deep breath. "They want to meet, Dean. Meet _us_."

"Oh." That was all he could say for a long time. So long that Sam started to look worried. "Do you—"

"Yeah. I do."

He'd known that was going to be the answer. "You sure?"

"You don't want to?"

Dean hesitated, searching for just the right words. "It's risky," he said finally. "That FBI agent might know about them. Could be a trap. If he found us, you _know_ he's found out about St. Louis."

"Missouri said Jerry didn't believe that." Sam grinned, in that half-embarrassed way he did when he was forced to admit being impressed with one of Dean's non-job-related escapades. "Apparently, Jerry believes you're fully _capable_ of killing somebody, but he's sure you'd have a good reason for it."

"I feel like part of the family already." Sam snorted. "You've known this for—what? Three months?"

"Yeah."

"And the only reason you're telling me now is because our—" He almost couldn't force out the word. "—our _half-brother_ called you when I was in the room."

"That's not the only—"

"Then what the hell took you so long?"

"I couldn't figure out how," Sam said sheepishly. "I wasn't sure how you'd take it. I mean, if Dad left some kids wandering around, you know, if he got really drunk one night or something, you'd understand that, but this— You _remember_ her, Dean."

"So?"

"Sometimes you're a little possessive."

"I am n—"

"Protective, then. About Mom. And what you remember."

"I am _not!_"

"Dean, there's a reason my first memory is of knowing not to ask about Mom."

"Smartass." He sighed. "They don't need to meet right this minute, do they? We can take a week or so and—"

"See if you can still walk?"

"Pretend I just threw a pillow at you."

Obligingly, and more than a little sarcastically, Sam said, "Oof."

"Now pretend I'm glaring at you."

"You _are_ glaring at me."

"Technically, I'm glaring at the ceiling, because it hurts to move my neck." Sam made a very suspicious noise. "Just promise me that when you call him back to set this up, you call him at two in the morning."

"Whatever." Sam got up to turn off the light. His bed creaked loudly as he fell into it.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Their name's _Remington?_"

"What about it?"

Dean grinned at the ceiling. "Think they can hook us up with free ammo?"


	4. A Genteel Luncheon

_Admit it: You thought I'd forgotten all about this._

**A Genteel Luncheon**

Jenny pulled her truck into the parking lot of Grandma's club and scowled. She hated this place, hated the way it stank of money and taffeta skirts and old ladies, hated the way she couldn't order red meat without her fellow diners giving her dirty looks, because steak was too _robust_ for a properly-brought-up rich girl. Just being in the parking lot was enough to make her want to run off and re-enlist. Come to think of it, a pre-deb reception here was why she'd enlisted the first time. "Tell me again why we're meeting _here_."

"Because they have security," Jerry replied primly, pushing open the truck's door and tumbling out. Only boy she knew who'd been kicked out of karate _and_ ballet for being too clumsy. "Security who's willing to believe that the other guy started the fight, which is not something that can be said of most of the other places in town."

_One little bar fight..._ "Worried about what they might do?"

"I'm worried about what _you_ might do," came the acid retort. "Oh, and Jenny—"

"Yeah?"

"Leave the gun in the truck."

Dammit. "I don't—"

He gave her his best big-eyed _pull the other one_ look. "Jenny, you don't go to the _bathroom_ unarmed."

"Neither would you if you'd ever gotten between Sherry and Misty fighting for the hair dryer," she grumbled, and made a show of sliding the gun out of its holster and into the glove compartment. He didn't know about—

"_And_ the backup."

"God _damn_ it, Jerry! How am I supposed to—"

"How about you behave yourself for an hour and if they're dangerous, we call the cops and let them do their jobs?"

"Fairy."

He grinned at the familiar jibe. "Bitch."

* * *

Dean parked the car in a manner best described as "grumpy," which meant that he couldn't use their parking-lot neighbors as an excuse to leave. There were a few other classic cars scattered among the Lexuses and BMWs and Jaguars, all polished, no doubt lovingly, to a high gloss. If anything about the Impala got them kicked out of here, it would be the fact that it was dusty from the drive.

"This is a bad idea," Dean muttered. He'd said that at least once every twenty miles all the way from Phoenix.

"Isn't that usually my line?" Sam asked mildly. Dean just reached into the back seat for his jacket. "The bruises are hardly visible anymore," he soothed.

Dean glared at him. "You're fucking crazy, you know that?"

Sam debated slamming his head into the dashboard, but settled for rolling his eyes. "Dean, if you didn't want to meet them, then why didn't you just _say_ so?"

"I never said that."

"So you _do_ want to meet them?"

"I didn't say that either." Dean tossed Sam his jacket and opened the door. "I just think this is fucking _conspicuous_, that's all. Especially with the FBI chasing us."

_For the love of—_ Sam got out of the car and pulled on his jacket. Maybe he should just be grateful he'd been able to talk Dean into wearing clean clothes, the least tattered ones, and scraping the worst of the crud off his boots. He'd dared to suggest they buy something a little more dignified than jeans, and Dean had reacted like Sam had suggested selling the Impala, complete with a five-minute rant on how if jeans weren't good enough for their new siblings, they didn't need them in the first place. "Will you at least leave the gun in the car?"

"No." Dean was rummaging in the trunk now, probably for _another_ weapon. "And you should—"

"They're our brother and sister, Dean, not a pair of demons."

Dean slammed the trunk shut with way more force than he would normally use. The stress was getting to him if he was abusing the Impala like that. "We don't actually know that."

_Dammit, Dean—_ "Yes, we do. I _told_ you. Jerry had the DNA tests done—" He saw the protest in his brother's eyes and ran right over it. "And I _know_ you wouldn't have let me, that's why I didn't tell you I was doing it."

Dean muttered something and held up a flask. "At least take some holy water." Sam gave him a look. "They could've been possessed between now and then," Dean persisted. "That damn demon knows a lot about us."

"How the— You think he knows something _we_ didn't? Something that Dad didn't think was important enough to even _mention?_" Dean just looked at him. "Fine." Sam stuffed the flask into a pocket. "Just a couple of things—"

"For fuck's sake—"

"Don't be mean to Jerry."

Dean looked honestly confused. "Why would I—" He stopped, realizing what Sam meant. "You think I'm gonna be an ass to the man because he's _gay?_" He sounded insulted. "What kind of guy do you think I _am_, Sammy?"

"You're the one always pissed because people think we're a—"

"Oh, for— That's not because they think we're gay, that's because they think I have the bad taste to date _you_."

"Hey!"

Dean grinned. "And the other thing?"

"Don't flirt with Jenny."

"Flirt with my big sister?" Dean grimaced. "_Dude._ Give me _some_ credit."

_Big sister._ The implications of that hit him, and Sam grinned. He couldn't help it. "You know, this means you're not the oldest anymore."

Dean's expression soured. So that hadn't occurred to him either. "Yeah, well, I'm still older than _you_," he grumbled.

"I'll remember that the first time Jenny tries to use the 'I'm older' logic on you. See how you like it," Sam added, half under his breath.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

This wasn't the kind of place Winchesters frequented, even on hunts. Way too classy. Definitely way too rich. The place stank of money—Old Money. No hauntings here—they'd refuse to allow anything so _common_ as a ghost.

Dean lagged back, letting Sam approach the hostess standing guard at the door. This was the kind of thing, and the kind of place, Sam was better at. Several of the club members sitting at the patio tables shot them (well, Dean) disapproving looks. Jeans were apparently not their idea of proper attire. "Winchesters, here to meet the Remingtons?"

By the hostess' expression, she knew at least a little about firearms. "You're _kidding_."

Sam gave her what Dean privately called the "Pathetic Puppy" face. "Would I make that up?"

The hostess consulted her list. "Here you are," she said. "Right this way."

There weren't as many people inside as on the patio, since it was a pretty nice day, but they were almost _very_ proper old ladies, sitting like they had iron rods strapped to their spines—or up their asses—and they stared even more coldly than the people outside. The table the hostess led them to was in a corner, out of the way of foot traffic. Two people already sat there, but they stood up as Sam and Dean approached.

Dean froze.

For fraternal twins, they looked remarkably alike, plus they were both blond, blue-eyed, and tall. Jenny's hair was nearly as short as Dean's, Jerry's long and pulled back in a ponytail. But that wasn't what made him stop in his tracks. "Son of a _bitch_," he whispered. They _both_ looked like Mom. Whoever their father was, whatever _he_ had looked like, not much of him had made it into his children.

"Hi," he heard Sam say, but from a distance. "I'm Sam, and this—" He stopped, just now realizing that Dean wasn't right behind him. "Dean?"

Why was Sam greeting them like that? Didn't he _see_—

_Shit_. Of course he didn't. Of the four of them, Dean was the only one who had any real memory of their mother. Sam had said it often enough, faded photos weren't the same as remembering a real live person, and since they hadn't even _known_ about her, Jenny and Jerry had probably never even had that much.

He shook it off and approached the table. "This answers one question," he said, fighting to keep his voice light. They all looked at him curiously. "The sasquatch here got his height from Mom's side of the family." Jenny was within a couple of inches of Dean's height (and was _not_ wearing heels to accomplish that), and Jerry might actually be a smidge taller than Sam. "Dad and I always wondered why he just kept growing."

"Dean!" Sam hissed.

Jenny grinned. _Little brothers, what are you gonna do?_ it seemed to ask, and despite his misgivings, Dean felt himself grinning back. Oh, he understood that, understood it _so_ well. "Sit down, before the grannies take this as an opportunity to come lecture me again," she ordered, gesturing them to the empty chairs. "You probably figured out I'm Jenny."

"It _was_ kind of obvious," Dean said.

Jenny chuckled. "Sam, you liar," she charged, good-naturedly, "he didn't speak to my tits at all."

"_This_ is what you warned them about?" Dean asked. Sam started to stammer, and Dean rolled his eyes and thwacked Sam on the back of the head. Jerry choked.

"Sit down, you two," Jenny ordered.

Dean couldn't help but notice that Jerry took the seat nearest the wall on the twins' side of the table, with Jenny sitting between him and the world—the exact same arrangement he took, pushing Sam to the inside chair. That was—that was just plain _freaky_. Nothing Sam had found out about the twins indicated that they would need to be protective of each other.

_No._ He studied the arrangement as he sat down and opened up an overly-curlicued menu that he wasn't entirely sure was English. Not _each other._ He'd protected Sam too long to not recognize another protector when he saw her. For whatever reason, Jenny was guarding Jerry, and in a way that spoke of old habit. Maybe all the way back to _their_ childhoods.

_And what would two rich kids with two loving parents and not a care in the world need protecting from?_ They called their stepmother _Mom_, for crying out loud, it wasn't like she was some witch out of a fairy tale.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere, so suddenly that Dean wasn't entirely sure the man was human—but he couldn't spray the man with holy water under the circumstances. Sam would hit him. So might Jenny. Jerry— He could probably take Jerry, but that would just bring him back to Jenny. "May I take your drink orders?" the waiter asked, looking down his nose at Dean.

Great. Even the _waiter_ didn't think he and Sam belonged here.

Dean gave up trying to decipher the curlicues and whatever language they were obscuring. "Is there any chance of getting a plain beer in a place like this?"

Jenny grinned. "Robby, he'll have one from my crate." The waiter raised an eyebrow. "It's mine, I can share it with whoever I want. Don't make me call the board on you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And don't ma'am me, I'm not my grandmother."

"Yes, ma— Miss Remington."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'll have a beer, too. Sam? You want a beer?"

"Raspberry tea."

Dean chuckled. "You are such a gi—" He was suddenly aware of Jenny's eyes boring into him, hard as ice, just _daring_ him to finish that sentence. "You're a wuss, Sammy."

"I like raspberry tea," Sam replied evenly, "and I haven't had it since I left school. I can get a beer anywhere."

"Lemonade—" Jerry began.

"Extra lemons, no ice," the waiter finished, and headed to the kitchen.

"Come here often?" Dean asked Jerry, with a smirk.

Jerry shot an uncomfortable glance at Jenny. "Grandma's on the board."

_Of course she is._ Money, money, everywhere, and him and Sam the poor relations. _Wonder if we can con them into paying for lunch._ He had an assortment of credit cards stuffed in his wallet, of course, but even the fake money needed to be saved for important things.

The waiter brought their drinks, and they ordered—enough food for a small country, to be honest, though Robby didn't even blink—and then they sat looking at each other. _Well, this is awkward._

It was—predictably—Sam who finally broke the silence. "We. Um. We've never exactly done this before. Met family, that is. Dad didn't have any family left by the time Mom—um."

_Oh, yeah. Much better. I hope that crate of hers has a _lot_ of beer in it. We're gonna need it._

"I suppose we can start with the standards," Jerry said. Jenny glanced at him. "I couldn't find out _everything_ on the Internet, Jen. It was all—" A gaggle of elderly women, all glaring at their table, walked by, and Jerry lowered his voice. Granny's friends? "All wanted posters and criminal records."

"Which mug shot are they using now?" Dean asked. "The Little Rock one is probably my best. The Baltimore ones—gah."

Jerry blinked. "I. Um." Jenny made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh. Sam groaned. "They didn't say."

Jenny came to her brother's rescue. "Kankakee," she said evenly, her eyes twinkling. Dean blinked. She was _teasing_ him, the little— Those were _spectacularly_ bad, and thankfully old. "So, what is it you two do?" Sam grabbed for his glass so that Dean would have to answer the question. Traitor. "Other than piss off cops and run from the Feds, of course. I take it you work together, since we can't seem to find one of you without finding the other."

_Like it didn't take a war to separate you two?_ "Nothing in particular," Dean answered. "A little here, a little there."

"And for this you went to Stanford?" Jenny asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sam went, not me."

"I didn't finish," Sam said quickly. Apologetically, like he had anything to apologize for, like any of it was _his_ fault. "Oh. We brought some pictures." Sam rummaged in his jacket until he found the handful of photos that he'd agonized over for the entire drive from Phoenix, like they had that many to choose from. "Mom and Dad, mostly. There's not many that survived the fire—"

"Fire?"

"When Mom died. And the—" He hesitated.

"The other fire?" Jerry guessed, his voice way too sympathetic for a guy they'd just met, and accepted the pictures from Sam—and did a double-take, looking from his sister to the photos and back again. "Damn," he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean said, contemplating his beer. "Welcome to my world."

"Holy shit," Jenny said. "She—" She took one of the pictures from Jerry. "I didn't—" Her voice cracked.

"Jen?"

"I—I used to have this dream—" She shook her head. "I didn't know it was—it was _her_. I—I thought—"

Whatever she was trying to say was interrupted by Robby and another waiter, bringing their food, and Dean had never been so irritated at someone giving him food in his life. Not even Missouri. Whatever Jenny had been about to say was important, and it wasn't exactly something you could just bring back up. _Sam, pass the salt, and hey, Jenny, you were about to tell total strangers a painful childhood memory?_

Jerry made some comment about the Stanford cafeteria, and he and Sam were off to the races, swapping stories of Stanford hangouts between mouthfuls of weird-looking dishes containing too much greenery for Dean's taste. Jenny seemed content to eat and listen with a tolerant big-sister smile, so Dean just gave up and applied his attention to the steak that had been the plainest thing on the menu.

Eventually Sam and Jerry ran out of stories to swap—for now, at least—and Dean jumped into the conversation. Anything to deflect another stroll down Stanford Lane. "So, Jenny, what do you do? When you're not deployed, that is."

She smiled lazily. It kinda reminded Dean of Meg, but less evil. Well, _maybe_ less evil. "Run a gun store. Me and Jerry own it jointly, but it's my baby."

Dean choked on a forkful of baked potato. "_Gun store?_" he managed.

"What can I say? All those Remington jokes in school warped my delicate girly mind."

Dean shot a glance at Jerry, who had the _exact_ same _God-give-me-strength_ expression Sam wore when Dean made an "inappropriate" wisecrack, then at Sam, who was staring at Jenny with his mouth open, exposing half-chewed chicken. He kicked Sam under the table; he'd raised the boy better than that. "Somehow I don't think anybody ever called you _delicate_," he said, grinning. "Or _girly_."

"I'll have you know I had the world's only pink toy gun," she said, pretending to be offended. The grin gave her away. "With _glitter_."

"She's not kidding," Jerry put in. "Our uncle customized it. It was the only way anybody could talk Grandma into letting her have it."

"Grandma has _very_ narrow ideas of what's appropriate for girls," Jenny said, with a bit of a snarl. "Nearly gave the old bat a heart attack when I enlisted. And I bet she's the reason your—I mean, our mother didn't get custody or any visitation rights. Carrolls—that's her maiden name—they're the oldest money in the county. Back in the seventies, everybody important—including the judges—was related to her, one way or the other. She considers the fact that there's currently nobody of her blood on the bench as an insult of the highest order."

That made sense—not the insult part, but that Granny might have interfered in a custody battle, especially if Sam's guess about the timing between the ceremony and the twins' birth was right and it _had_ been a shotgun wedding. Granny might have never accepted her new daughter-in-law. Especially if the daughter-in-law didn't meet a rich society lady's standards.

"Anyhow," Jenny went on, "I was always interested in weapons, and the fact that Grandma didn't approve just made me crazier about them. So when we got our—" She hesitated, looking at them, and Dean was dead sure she'd been about to say _trust funds_. Or maybe _inheritances_. "So when I got some money, I decided to invest in the best gun shop in town."

"It's the _only_ gun shop in town," Jerry said dryly. Just like Sam talked about the Impala when he wanted to annoy Dean. Those two were starting to scare him.

"Because I drove those other two assholes out of business," she retorted, and added in disgust, "Wanna-be skinheads. Hated women. Total morons. Tried to buy some ammo from one, and he had the balls to tell me to go home and pop out a baby for Jesus like a real American woman would."

"Did he survive?" Dean asked.

"Of course he did!"

"The rumors about his wife and the preacher started a few months later, though," Jerry added, with a look on his face that could only be described as _innocent_. Sam chuckled. For a second, Dean had no problem believing that this was actually his brother.

_Genetically, maybe._ They still weren't family. Family was more than being related. Except for Mom, they had nothing in common.

Robby the waiter came by, topping off drinks and taking away some of the empty plates. Jenny leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. "So, tell me," she said casually, and Dean braced for some question about Mom. "Have you two found the demon that killed our mother yet?"

Sam did a spit-take worthy of Daffy Duck, spraying his pretentious raspberry tea across the table and giving Jerry the chance to display excellent reflexes. "D-demon?" he spluttered, fumbling for napkins.

_Subtle, Sammy. Real subtle._ Dean studied Jenny. "What makes you—"

"Don't play innocent with me, Winchester," she said, and the look in her eyes— She'd been playing them from the start, dammit. She'd known who they were before Jerry ever called to set up this meeting. "Guy I served with awhile. His mom and dad split up, she went off hunting demons. He knew a few things, not the least of which was the Winchester reputation. You guys are fucking _notorious_."

"What do _you_ know about demons?" Dean asked. Sam started spluttering again. Dean gave him another kick under the table.

"I know they're trouble," she said, "and I know that's what started the fires. Dave's how I heard about it. Thought it was just a camp story until Jerry told me about you guys. I called Dave right after and pestered him for details. Talked to his mother too. She was _full_ of useful information."

Sam shot Dean a questioning look, but there was enough description for Dean to know exactly who she was talking about. "Kat Harris." If Jenny was surprised that he knew the name, she didn't show it, just nodded. "How much did she tell you?"

"Everything she'd admit to knowing. So probably not _everything_, but more than Jerry could find on the Internet and from Mississippi."

"Missouri," Jerry corrected, with an exasperation that probably meant it wasn't the first time Jenny had flubbed the name.

That squared with Kat. She was one of the few solo women out there, and practically the only one that could be classified as an old-timer; Dave was _his_ age, and Kat had been hunting most of his life. Dad had worked with her a couple of times early on, back when they were kids. They weren't Dean's favorite memories. Kat had a knack for terrifying small children. He still remembered how shocked he'd been when he'd found out she actually _had_ children. His seven-year-old mind had classified her as a cross between Wonder Woman and a nun.

"So Dave just told you everything? Out of the blue?" That didn't square with hunters' families. They tended to appreciate a good secret.

"Nah. At first, it was just campfire stories. Something to keep the boys entertained when the girls made them shut up about their sex lives and favorite centerfolds. Like I said, the Winchesters are notorious. You made for better stories than Dave's mom, or he didn't want to risk her wrath, or something. Then I started noticing stuff."

"Like?"

"Like Dave being more worried about running salt lines than setting perimeter guards."

"Hauntings?"

"_Sirrush_."

"Bless you," Dean said solemnly. Jenny stuck her tongue out at him.

"A what?" Sam, as usual, let his curiosity get in the way.

"Babylonian dragon. Basically a very pissed-off guardian lizard. That particular one was dead, but he hadn't gotten the memo yet." Without missing a beat, she gave Jerry a solid whack between the shoulder blades when he choked. "We, um, sorta beat the truth out of Dave after that."

An undead dragon in the middle of a war zone. Their officers must have _loved_ that debriefing. "I bet."

She smiled. "Anyhow, I kept Dave alive a couple of times, so when I called, Kat was happy to tell me all the details about your dad and his quest, and what she knew about you two, all the stuff Dave didn't know. You know, all the shit that's _not_ in your FBI files."

"And you didn't tell—" Jerry began.

"You're transparent and you know it." That shut Jerry up. "So. Found it yet?"

"What do you care?" Dean retorted. "You never knew her. It's not your fight."

"My fights are whatever I say they are," Jenny growled.

Sam shattered the tension by bursting into laughter. Dean shot him a glare. "You don't understand," Sam wheezed, "she sounds just—like—_you!_"

Jerry snorted, and Jenny glared at him—and then she smiled, a little sheepishly. "Okay, maybe we're more alike than we want to admit."

"You think?" Sam and Jerry asked, in perfect, terrifying unison.

Sam was going to pay for that later. He was going to _wish_ Dean had put Nair in his shampoo again. He was supposed to be backing Dean up, not joining the other side.

"Dean." He looked back at Jenny. "We're not trying to steal her from you. It's just— I've spent my life hating her. Sure, it was because people lied to me, but that's beside the point. She was my _mother_. And now, when I've finally found out about the lie, when I finally know the truth, it's too late. She's gone. I can't apologize to her or meet her or get to know her. _Ever_. Shut up," she said when Dean opened his mouth to argue. "I _owe_ her. But she's not here. So all I can do to make it up to her is to help get the fucker that killed her. That's what makes this _my_ fight, too."

"This isn't a job for amateurs," Dean snapped. "You'll get killed _real_ quick out there—"

"Fine. Then we'll help _you_ take care of it. Base of operations, supplies, whatever. Between everything Kat told me and everything we found on the Internet, you fucking well _need_ the help." She grinned and added, tauntingly, "_Little_ brother."

* * *

"I like them," Jerry said, watching the black Impala thread its way out of the parking lot. Being the incredibly supportive brother that he was, he had refrained from mentioning that Dean ran his hands along the hood of his car with the same kind of affection that Jenny lavished on her truck.

He'd never seen _anybody_ so much like his sister. It was scary. He'd had a hellacious time dealing with Jenny, and he was only "little" by five minutes; he didn't know how the hell Sam had survived being four _years_ younger.

"Mmph." Jenny was studying the scrap of paper in her hand—cell numbers, a slew of e-mail addresses, a couple of people to contact if there was ever an emergency and those didn't work. _He'd_ gotten Sam's quick'n'dirty how-to guide on Keeping Bad Things Outside. _I hope rock salt isn't on any government watch lists. It's going to take half the salt in the county to get the house and store protected._

All three of them had gotten death glares from Dean, but he hadn't moved to stop Sam from giving them any of that information. Not much, maybe, but it was a start.

Maybe Sam had been right. Maybe they should have let Dean percolate a little longer before giving in to Jenny's demand for a meeting. It was a lot to take in. "You don't?"

"I like them fine," Jenny said, but she was worried. She always thought she could hide it from him. He'd never bothered enlightening her. Transparent, was he?

"I could have invited—"

"Mike wouldn't intimidate those two," she interrupted. "Mike's a lot of things, but he's not—" She stopped. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure anything _would_ intimidate Dean. More bravado than brains."

"Reminds me of someone else I know," Jerry replied promptly. She punched him in the arm. "Ow," he said obediently, and added, "Think we'll ever hear from them again?"

"Definitely."

That wasn't the impression he'd gotten. "You do?" he asked, surprised. Sam would definitely keep in touch, but the way Dean had been radiating hostility, Jerry wasn't sure those phone numbers would stay good for more than two days. He knew they swapped out phones fairly often because the numbers Sam had given Jenny were not the same numbers he'd programmed into his phone when Sam first called.

"We're all they've got left."


End file.
